A Match Made in Kansas
by under-the-autumn-tree
Summary: Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are in love. The only problem is that neither of them know that the feeling is mutual; Cas is fairly sure that Dean is straight, and Dean is also fairly sure that Dean is straight. Sounds like the average chick-flick, if only their flat-mate, Alice didn't have to deal with it on a daily basis. Outsider POV. Destiel. First fic on this site ever...
1. Chapter 1

My flat mates are idiots. I mean, they are complete jackasses. It wasn't always that way, though; shit only started going down at the start of summer 2004, so I've only had to put up with it for a year and a half. That's a whole lot longer than I'd like. Fools in love; that's what they are. Fools, because neither of them actually knows that the other feels the same way. One thinks the other is straight, meanwhile the other also thinks that he's straight. Honestly.

Castiel Novak (Cas to most) was my friend for decades before Dean arrived on the scene and got him all love-sick. We went to school together since we were both nine years old. I was the new girl that moved from the UK because of her dad's work, and he was the nicest little boy in possibly the whole state; the only one who didn't pick on me for my accent and cropped hair. We grew closer and closer as the years went on, spending summer and winter vacations together as well as the rest of the time in between. He was even my date to several Proms, before he came out as gay at the end of our freshman year of high school; which was the most emotionally confusing summer of my 15 year old life. We were still cool though, and now, as we reach the end of our third year in Kansas City Art Institute, we still are.

Cas definitely belongs at our college; to say he is artistically gifted would probably force God to strike you dead as punishment for a ludicrous understatement. Cas is a poet, has the singing voice of a whole flock of angels, can draw and paint both with unbelievable photographic prowess and abstract playfulness to put all abstract artists to shame. He plays most instruments, including the piano, keyboard, all types of guitar, a few varieties of the trumpet and even a few weird and wonderful instruments from old, forgotten worlds and far off countries.

Cas has this conviction about him that he injects into everything that he does. He has a fiery passion for his art and his life in general that, coupled with his politely curious blue eyes, perpetually messy, short, dark hair and overall good looks, makes clueless girls in his classes fall for him and makes all his teachers love him. He knows what he wants, and goes for whatever that may be with unbeatable determination. Or at least, he did until Dean arrived on the scene.

Don't get me wrong; I love Dean too. But poor Cas' face when Dean first moved in with us told me in a snap that he was done for. This kid is ridiculously attractive. Big, green eyes, long lashes, full lips, playful-boyish smirk; the whole goddamned package. I honestly didn't know what my neighbours would start to think of me living with these two male-model looking types.

Now, if you came into our apartment as an outsider, you might assume straight away that Dean was just a typical 20-something year-old male; from afar the way he slopes around the place in mostly just his underwear until as late as he can manage, and the way he sprawls himself out on the sofa in front of the TV from when he returns to the apartment at four until the 'wee hours' of the morning might make him seem lazy, but he's really not.

He's more committed to his job in his uncle Bobby's car workshop than I've ever seen of someone with a job in a car work shop and is charmingly proud of both his wages and his work, and he does his bit around the house as well. He never leaves a dirty dish anywhere, does the laundry when it's his turn and since he moved in Cas and I have been able to enjoy warm, home cooked meals on most days instead of Super Noodles and microwave pizza 24/7. Yeah, despite being otherwise excellent with his hands, the only thing Cas can cook (and by cook I mean prepare without burning around five times out of ten) is a piece of toast. And I wouldn't trust myself with big knives and fire any day of the week. It's actually surprising, and it was when we first discovered this, that an almost stereotypically men's man like Dean Winchester has such a flare for home cookery. It's a nice big 'screw you' to gender boundaries though, I guess; and I know that I couldn't carry on living without at least one of Dean's specialty beef burgers every fortnight.

The things are to die for, seriously.

And then there's me; a short for her age, baggy t-shirt-wearing, be speckled 22 year-old girl from Belfast with kind of curly, kind of not, shoulder length, brown hair and freckly skin that hasn't seemed to realise that it lives in America now and that it's OK to tan. I always sort of saw myself ending up in an art college, and I always kind of hoped for the pleasant type of student life that I have now; two amazing best friends, a pretty nice apartment in America. Kansas City is a great place to live.

But I never imagined that I'd have to balance the duty of 'match-maker to the clueless' with the rest of my day to day life. Especially not with these two idiots.


	2. Chapter 2

I open my eyes to the sound of Whitesnake lyrics and turn my head toward my bedroom door. It's open. But, I closed it last thing before I went to bed last night… I shuffle myself into a wobbly upright position on my bed, my arms and back feeling about as sturdy as the legs of a new-born deer. My duvet feels heavy, warm and dangerously inviting like a smiling, purple predator. I squint at the clock on my bedside table. It's only 7:30; my alarm would have gone off already if it was a weekday, but it's still too early to be awake on a Sunday morning.

All at once, the wondrous, sweet scent of something bready and chocolaty wafts in a bee line straight to my nostrils. Then I realise, with a grin and an incredulous shake of my head, how much of a set-up this is. Only one person I know would, and could, wake you up by craftily wafting the scent of their cooking into your bedroom as you sleep. Dean's back.

I ease out of bed and pad out into the kitchen where I see him, jigging side to side and nodding his head along with the beat of the song he's singing absent-mindedly to. His back is to the rest of the apartment as he concentrates most of his attention to whatever is causing the good smell from the hob of the cooker.

"Dean!" I attempt enthusiasm, but my voice comes out croaky and lazy sounding. Dean turns, spatula still in hand, and opens an arm out invitingly. I shuffle round the kitchen table and wrap my slowly motorising arms around his middle in a sleepy, welcome-home hug. As he returns the hug, I crane my neck to look round him at the source of the smell that woke me up.

"Pancakes?" my eyes light slightly, and my stomach growls after several hours of fasting,

"Chocolate chip." Dean nods, happy pride fringing his voice.

I step closer to them as he uses his spatula to check their cooking progress,

"My only weakness."

Dean chuckles knowingly and I lean back on the counter beside the oven, watching as he gently scrapes the pancakes from their pan and onto a small plate. He catches my expectant expression and grins, one eyebrow cocked, before turning fluidly and walking away from me, towards the couch at the far side of the living area of the apartment.

The hungry light in my eyes fades and I shuffle after him. He chuckles at the staccato of my footsteps. When I stop in front of him, I raise and eyebrow and make a confused gesture with my arms,

"What?" Dean grins through an oversized mouthful of pancake, "These are my pancakes."

I make a disgruntled, incredulous sound and he laughs at me, "I just drove for ten hours without food, on my own, at night; I'm frickin' starving."

I roll my eyes; his scheme to wake me up with pancake-smell now just seems redundant and annoying.

"So you woke me up by fanning that intoxicating bouquet into my room, yet you're not gonna give me any pancakes?"

He shrugs, grinning his familiar, shit-eating grin as he chews through another forkful,

"You just wanted a welcoming party, didn't you?" I say and he shrugs again, swallowing before he speaks,

"And only half a party showed up; where's Cas?"

"Still asleep, I'm guessing," I say, rubbing more sleep out of my eyes.

"Lazy sonnuva bitch," Dean shakes his head slowly, in mock-disgust.

"It's not even 9:00 yet, Dean. Sunday morning, too, what d'you expect?" I chuckle, moving back across towards where the bedrooms live, "I'll go get 'im."

The room across from the bathroom is where Cas sleeps; lucky bastard gets first pick in there most mornings, if he's not still asleep. Dean and I are just lucky that he doesn't put that much effort into his appearance on the most part. Unlike us, who have to spend an unfortunate length of time on our hair alone each morning, to get it out of bed-head mode, Cas' hair just naturally sits perfectly almost all the time. Like I've said: lucky bastard.

When I enter it through the most subtle crack in the door I can manage, Cas' bedroom is still pitch dark, and smells like the incense he got at the Halloween fair last month.

I creep towards his bed as quietly as I think is humanly possible, holding back a giggle, but just as I reach the end of the queen-size's shadowy form…

"Gimme a minute…" Cas' voice comes out rougher and croakier than usual, muffled against his pillow.

I sigh and perch at the end of the bed and wait as a sleepy groan convulses over Cas' shoulders. He props himself up on both elbows stiffly, turning his neck as far as he can manage to squint back at me.

"How's the back?" I ask as he twists into a slouched, upright sitting position,

"I don't know," he swings his legs out of bed and walks over to the floor-ceiling mirror by the door. He twists back and fourth, trying to look at his back in the mirror, lifting his shirt up over his head to reveal the tattoo that had been stinging the flesh on his back possibly all night, "The stinging's reduced. Is it still red? I can't really see myself…"

I flick the switch on the wall and Cas blinks at the sudden brightness. I examine the inked area of skin on his back; two incredibly realistic wings, seeming to actually sprout from where they start between his shoulder blades, spread out across the top of his back. Some of the feathers at the wings' tips curve round his shoulders towards his collar bones and round the tops of his arms. I hadn't seen the tattoo properly yet; the guy who did it had told Cas to keep it covered for a certain amount of time to avoid infection or something. In this light it looks really amazing. Beautifully detailed, greyscale feathers, dramatic and gnarled in places, split with nicks out of them in some parts.

"How does it look?" Cas twists his neck round a few times to try and see for himself. I poke the soft flesh between his shoulder blades,

"Does that hurt?" I ask, "It doesn't look red anymore."

"Nah, not really," he spins back around, grabbing his t-shirt and pulling it back down over his back, smoothing the wrinkled, black fabric as best as he can, "But, I mean, how does the tattoo look? Is it okay?"

"Oh, the tattoo's amazing," I nod, "They did a really great job- is it what you wanted?"

Cas grins enthusiastically, revealing teeth straightened perfectly by an adolescence full of braces, his eyes crinkling happily at the corners,

"Absolutely. I can always trust Spike to do a good job," he refers to the tattoo-artist, an old friend of his and a few of his brothers,

"He did Gabe's sleeve."

"Oh yeah!" I remember being in equal awe at the intricate artwork on Cas' big brother's right arm. This 'Spike' guy should get an award.

Cas turns again, back to the mirror, and spends a moment fixing and scrutinising his dark mass of hair, before a somewhat impatient knock sounds from the bedroom door.

"You ladies done powdering your noses?" Dean sounds amused with himself from behind the door. Cas raises an eyebrow and turns to me, narrowing his eyes slightly,

"Is that Dean?" he asks. Before Cas can make another move, Dean marches into the room, holding his arms out ceremoniously,

"Uhuh," I nod and side step Dean as he swoops in, on his way to hug Cas hello. But he stops just as Cas has prepared to have the wind knocked out if him, looking, with a titled head, at the loose neckline of Cas' oversized t-shirt,

"What's that?" he spots the very tips of the black feathers etched onto Cas' skin, where the wings have curved round to his collar bones, "Dude, did you get inked?"

Dean steps back and Cas turns to lift up the back of his shirt again, showing off his new tattoo.

"Wow." Dean gives a low whistle and chuckles, "Now _that's_ pretty cool."

"I know." Cas grins with pride,

"Has Gabe seen this?" Dean asks, "What'll he think?"

Cas spins back round, replacing his shirt on his back, "Who'd you think talked me

into getting it done? Balthy was there too."

Cas' eyes are suddenly focused beyond Dean, and beyond the hallway outside his

bedroom. He can see into the kitchen, and spots the dirty dishes that Dean left littered around the kitchen counters,

"Did you cook?" his eyes light in a similar way to how mine had at the sight of the pancakes earlier on. Before Dean can answer, Cas has started off towards the kitchen. Dean stands for a second. Then he realises what Cas is up to,

"Cas wait!" he calls down the hall, "Don't you dare!"

He canters into the lounge with me at his heel. I laugh to myself; he should not have left his food unattended, especially after he and his culinary skills had been absent from the household for over a week.

"Hey, hey!" his voice raises an octave as we catch Cas in the act of swiping a pancake from Dean's plate.

I almost keel over, as the sight of Dean clambering over the back of the nearest sofa to launch himself unceremoniously at Cas' hunched, giggling form throws me into a fit of laughter.

"_Fuck_-" is the last, yelped word Cas is able to mutter before Dean has crashed on top of him. A clumsy, crummy carpet brawl ensues.

"Dean, it's long gone." I call to one of the tangled piles of limbs, "There's no point fighting for it."

"He needs to learn his lesson!" Dean growls and grins maniacally, twisting Cas into a crouched head-lock. Cas' pained groan is muffled by one of Dean's arms, although it is clear that even though Dean is heavier than Cas he isn't dong much damage; it's too early in the morning for either of them to exert that much energy. I sit down in the armchair opposite them, sighing and glancing over at the plate of pancakes which has been abandoned on the arm of the sofa closest to the TV. I roll my eyes,

"Have you made your point yet?"

Dean turns his head round to look at me over his shoulder (he has now pinned Cas on his front and is sitting on his back, looking defiant and overly proud of himself) and shrugs, "I dunno… Sorry yet, Cas?"

"No regrets." Cas wheezes under Dean's weight, "I'd rather you get offuv me now, Dean. I think you're fat ass has ruptured something."

Dean laughs incredulously, "Not with that attitude."

"I think you're crushing him." I laugh and tilt my head to look at Cas, who is resting his chin on his folded arms, munching on a mouthful of dough,

"At this point I'll become a martyr for the cause, so I don't mind really." He chuckles, earning a dig in the ribs from Dean, who sighs and lifts himself off him.

Cas rolls onto his back and I hold a hand out to help him up,

"Solid effort, Cas." I say and he nods, grinning lopsidedly,

"Viva la revolution."

I smile at him knowingly, and he blinks a silent response, his blue eyes full of determination. He pats me on the shoulder as he walks past me towards his bedroom,

"Don't feel the need to wake me up for a good hour, guys." he calls on his way back into the dark room, muttering something about 'friggin' room mates' and bruised ribs.

I made him promise that while Dean was away he wouldn't let himself get worked up over his growing feelings for our friend. He had reasoned, jokingly, that we would worry about all that stuff when he got back. Dean was back now, and Cas was in for it; the quiet decision, the promise he had made himself, had been filling his mind for the last few days before Dean returned. Something big is coming for Cas. He just doesn't seem to know what it is yet. I have a few theories.


	3. Chapter 3

**(rather long)A/N:**

**Helloo, people of the ! Shaz here. First off thanks for the reviews on the first two chapters, they may not be many but they are still highly appreciated. Reviews will keep me going, so thank.**

**This chapter's in Cas' POV, so I really just hope I've kept in character, and I hope I've captured him well enough for yous.**

**Sorry for the delay in uploading it, but I started this chapter with some serious writer's block, only to come back with good ideas for an ending after about a gazillion years of not knowing what on earth to write, only to find that every document on my computer had been wiped clean by the guy who fixed the computer after its breaking. So I've had to start it again, not fully remembering how the original went. I hope it's still up to scratch. **

**Thanks for reading and (hopefully) enjoying. Here's the chapter:**

**CAS' POV**

I'm not entirely sure how I have managed to stay in my room for almost two hours now, but I certainly didn't spend it sleeping, as I told Alice and Dean. No, my mind is far too troubled right now to even _think_ about attempting sleep. But, as the blank ceiling of my dimly lit bedroom does little to help as any kind of distraction from my annoying inner-turmoil, the music that drifts from my IPod on its docking station on my messy excuse for a work desk to my ears where I lie exasperated on my bed serves as a welcomed stimulus.

And, as the first cords of Danny Schmidt's 'This Too Shall Pass' floats through the air, I find myself thinking about my own acoustic guitar, where it sits untouched for weeks on its stand against the far wall of my room. Good. This music is really helping to keep my distracted from _cough _certain other topics _cough_. I really would love to learn this song. And believe me, I've tried, but the guitar playing technique of finger picking goes right beyond my capabilities. It's very difficult to learn. The only person I know that can play his guitar in such a skilful way is-

_Damn it._

Well, I tried, didn't I? Can't blame me for at least trying…

Dean. There's no real point in me even trying to prevent myself from thinking about him at this moment in time, is there? No.

Dean is back, and now that he is I have an important decision to make. Or… Maybe I'm making too big a deal out of this? Well, on the outside it would seem that way, but honestly, to me and Alice- and especially to me- this is definitely a massive deal. Or- Oh, I don't know.

You see, the thing is, Alice _did_ kind of make me promise (not only her, but myself moreover) that once Dean got back from his trip to Stanford I would try to sort out my many, very complicated and frustrating feelings for him. And, while he was away, I would let myself be at rest. I would allow myself not to stress out about said feelings for a while and concentrate on other things. So that's what I did, and I was glad of it.

That one, peaceful week was one of the best I've had in a long time. Not because Dean was absent, please don't misunderstand me, but because (again, for the first time in a long time) Alice and I were given the opportunity to get back to what had brought us together as friends in the first place; we got back to the roots of our relationship; we spent some quality time together. Alice is kind of like the fairy godmother in one of the stories I used to tell my little sister, Anna, as she fell asleep. What I mean is she took away all the worry and strife in my world, if only for a little while, and in doing that helped me to relax and have a really good time. Mind you, if I ever told Alice that she'd most likely laugh at me. Or she might like the title. You never know; that's just the kind of girl Alice is. And it might be one of the many reasons that we are so close.

Anyway. Like I was saying, we spent some quality time together. There were outings days; we went out to various places, I let her drag me along to a few movies that she'd wanted to see (which turned out not to be so bad), in return for her allowing me to drag her along to the Autumn Art Exhibition in our city's museum, which she also ended up enjoying (or that's what she told me, at least).

And then there were the simpler days; days when we did virtually nothing. Either the weather was too bad to go anywhere; there was a period of about two days when it rained torrentially (with thunder and even lightning later in the night); or we simply could not be bothered to go anywhere or do anything outside of our own home. I think those days were my favourite. We watched and re-watched movies and re-runs of our old favourite TV shows, whilst keeping warm under a pile of duvets from all three of our bedrooms. At one stage, towards the end of the week, we got so caught up in our bubble of being 'perfect flatmates' that we even fell under the illusion that we could actually cook something without causing a fire.

It was meant to be a cake. We can't. We can't cook. And we did actually cause a small kitchen fire. No one was hurt, and luckily there weren't any _bad _scorch marks, so we'll just keep that particular detail a secret from Dean for the time being.

And, even without Dean's masterful cooking skills we managed to survive for the whole week on delivered pizza, diner burgers and other such fast foods; I'm not one to complain about eating fast food either, so we got along OK. Although, we both agreed, the cheeseburgers from Sue's Kitchen didn't so much as shine a light on Dean's home made ones.

But now Dean is back, and I'm not sure how I feel about that promise I made. I just don't know if I even want to go through with it.

My feelings for Dean. I can't even begin to describe them. But I can't really best around the bush either, so, at risk of sounding like a completely infatuated preteen girl, I must say that I am in fact in love with Dean Winchester.

As with most things of this nature, there is nothing neatly wrapped or simple about it.

At first it was just a crush, and I am fully aware of how unbearably cliché that sounds, but it is one hundred percent accurate. When he first moved into mine and Alice's little apartment, it was just a crush. A crush moulded around pure _physical_ attraction. Because, no matter what your sexual preference may be, there is absolutely no denying that Dean is physically attractive. And… That is actually a massive understatement. You would think the boy's a model, and I'm almost positive that he has probably been approached by someone at some stage in his life about some form of modelling career. Then again, I don't think that male modelling is the kind of job that Dean would take.

But he would be fully capable of it.

And, again I know I might sound ridiculous, but there is literally nothing flawed about Dean's appearance. Not one damned thing.

His eyes, green enough to describe the entire essence of pure life itself, and holding enough undisguised emotion to tell you his every exact emotion at any given time… Are life ruiners. And have been since the very moment whatever divine, merciless force etched them into existence, and definitely were when I first laid my own eyes on them how ever long ago now that was.

His friggin' _lips_ are just… Sinful, is the only word I can think of to describe them. And the smile they form, either from honest joy or a boyish smirk, or a self-righteous grin is the absolute death of me.

Do not even get me _started_ on all those freckles. I don't care if they're 'kisses from angels', they can just go straight to hell without any notion of ever coming back.

Sometimes I think it's an infatuation; simply me admiring all those lovely physical attributes; but then sometimes I also think that I am _romantically_ attracted to Dean. That it's all purely asexual. I think about how it would feel to be involved with him in that way. How it would be to just be _with him_, for him to return all the affection I have for him contained within myself. To do stupid couple-y things in front of the fire, long walks on the beach etc, etc, dumb shit like that.

But then, he catches my eye in a certain way. He does something accidentally flirtatious. And my ridiculous hormones tell me that there is a whole lot of sexual attraction in there as well. And it makes me frustrated to the point of anger that I can't communicate my feelings to him. That I can't, in one big gesture, explain all the affection and confused emotion that I've had pent up for him, and that he'd just smile at me in the same way that he always does and tell me that it's fine, and that he feels the same way, and it'd all be good in the world.

But would it?

There is, after all, no guarantee that he _would_ return my feelings. And I just don't think I could face that kind of rejection. Moreover, I don't think I could face the ruination of the friendship that we've both worked so hard to build from nothing. Because we didn't always share this platonic (at least on his point of view) love for each other. It takes a while to earn his trust. The only reason he signed up to share our flat was because his little (adopted) sister, Charlie, is the mutual friend-link between him and Alice. And Dean trusts the word of his family above all else. Of course he was pleasant when he first met me, when Alice brought him home to view the apartment, but I could tell that he wasn't completely sure of me just yet. I had to work for it, as I'm sure every one had to at some point. A big part of me earning his friendship was down to when Sam, his younger, biological brother, came to visit. And we actually became friends quite quickly; we share a love of literature, we shared plenty intelligent conversations, and he was very fond (even, flatteringly, in awe) of some of the canvas paintings I'd had drying in the lounge at the time. Well that earned him my fondness straight away. And I think it was later that evening, after Sam had gone home, when I was speaking his praises to Dean (who lapped them up), that he discovered that I was alright. Like I said, he takes his family's word very seriously. And once he let me in, so to speak, the relationship that formed between us turned out to be on of the best male friendships that I've ever had. Now he's completely comfortable with me, as I am with him. He shares most things with me, but he still isn't great with talking about feelings, although I think he is that way with everyone.

And honestly, with the times we've shared; me and him separately, or me, him and Alice as a unit, I'm not sure that I want to risk it all by making some stupid confession that could end up creeping him out beyond the point of ever wanting contact with me again. Maybe I'm overreacting, maybe I'm not, but I'm just not sure enough to try it out.

I don't want to wreck our friendship.

Although, according to certain people (Alice and Gabe), it wouldn't make that big of a difference to our relationship if we _were_ together. I'm not able to tell myself- I have been informed (with much zeal) by such Alices and Gabriels- but there is a list of _things_ that Dean and I do, apparently, that make us look like a couple anyway?

Said list goes thusly:

Inside jokes that no one else gets.

Nicknames.

Personal space- or lack of…

'Touchy-feely' or 'weirdly-intimate' conversations.

'Eye-sex'…? I don't think I understand that particular concept, but as far as I can tell Gabe and Alice use it to describe eye-contact. Oh, but it's 'not normal eye-contact', obviously.

Before I can begin to ponder any further what this cryptic nonsense could mean, the private bubble of my own bedroom is popped by an intruder. My thoughts are destroyed immediately as… Dean peeks himself halfway through my bedroom door. I posture myself habitually and my eyebrows prick up expectantly. He nods and smiles at me in greeting, "Hey, man." He says, sounding gruff. As he sways the rest of his body through the door, his shoulders seem to loosen and drop by degrees, giving him an air of sudden relaxation.

"Hello, Dean." is my simple reply.

He grins at me from where he leans back against my door, and he sighs out a familiar chuckle before half hopping-half flinging himself onto my bed to sprawl out comfortably beside me, and I scoot a little to make some room for him.

What's so funny? I narrow my eyes at him, my head tilting in confusion.

"Damn, I missed home," Dean shakes his head, still chuckling to himself. My silent confusion eggs him on to explain,

"You know; familiarities 'n stuff. Home. Alice. You. 'Hello, Dean.'" He imitates my voice and I just blink at him. And perhaps that is a weird thing to say, but I let out an incredulous laugh none the less. But how can he turn my way of greeting into a sentimental thing? I just don't know.

That's the thing about Dean Winchester though; he never lets a good memory or a sentiment go to waste. He appreciates everything. Especially good relationships.

"You know you do that, right?" he nods his head at me and blinks, pausing a little at the obvious increase in my confusion, "That you always say hi like that? 'Hello, Dean.'" He imitates me again and I'm torn between laughing again and being offended, "That's how I greet you. Is there a problem with that?"

This time he laughs, and brings his hands up in a mock-defensive gesture, "Hey, I'm just saying."

"Or if it troubles you this much I could just ignore you when you enter a room?" I smirk and shrug, earning another laugh,

"What, you want me to just forget how you _didn't_ wake up to greet me this morning, after my long and tiresome journey?" he stretches out the words 'long' and 'tiresome' to add dramatic effect, "And then you steal my pancakes?"

"You asked for it, Dean." I grin, "You woke me up before ten, on a _Sunday_."

Dean rolls his eyes. And we both just sit for a while before I notice him squinting at my IPod when it switches track again. Then I notice that he's making a face at the euphoric, electronic beat and melody that have started to fill the air in the room.

"What did you say this guy was called? Dave something…"

"David Bowie."

"He sounds weird. His voice is all high-pitched, and what even is that noise in the background to his _singing_?" the inflection that he puts into his voice when he says singing makes me feel sorry for Bowie.

"It's alternative, Dean." I roll my eyes and smirk at his expression, "Alice introduced me to Bowie when her dad gave her one of his CDs. He's British. I think he's kind of cool…"

"Yeah, you would." Dean snorts, and then he yelps as my elbow makes quick contact with his ribs, "Hey, what? You wanna go again?" he laughs loudly and swivels his body round to face me more head on, looking ready for another brawl, "Won't go easy on you this time though, Cas."

I look up into his golden-green eyes and my heart flickers happily in the background at the contagious joy that seems to glow around Dean in a warm, inviting aura, and I don't even have to wonder for a second why I feel the way that I do about him. _Christ, I am such a sap. _Pathetic, really. I roll my eyes and shake my head at myself, and I laugh,

"I think I'll pass, thanks."

Dean chuckles and flops back into his original position, his head bouncing back comfortably on one of my pillows, "Yeah, 'course you will."

"How was California?" I ask, shifting off my bed and shuffling over to shuck my curtains open, finally letting some daylight leak into my bedroom.

"Ah, man it was unreal." I squint at the innocently violent shard of sunlight that hits me square in the face as I turn to lean on my work desk and listen to Dean's tale. His eyes have lit further (as impossible as that should be) at the prospect of talking about his trip, and thus the time he spent with his little brother over the past week. He smiles excitedly, and in remembrance, as he talks and I find myself smiling along with him. He describes his trip to see Sam at his university in California. He talks about how he picked up his friends Ash and Jo on the way there; how they could only get a twin bedroom in the motel they stopped at halfway there; how that meant that Ash had to 'take one for the team' and 'sacrifice' a comfortable night's sleep, and instead bunk out on a pile of spare duvets and pillows on the floor; how stiff Ash's joints we for the remainder of the trip, and how he never once let Dean and Jo forget about it; how Dean had had to make it up to Ash by buying him his own body weight in beers and burgers on the return drive; but most of all, and with the most (almost child-like) excitement that I've ever seen in any other guy his age, Dean talked about the time he spent with Sam when they arrived at the university's campus.

Sam Winchester goes to Stanford University in California. He studies law and, despite the fact that he had to leave his brother and father in Lawrence to move all that way away, Dean is just about as proud of him as any big brother could ever dream of being. His little brother means the world to him, and it's really rather charming. And hey, the fact that Dean is willing to drive for over 25 hours to see Sam, alone is all the evidence you'd need to see how close they are, and how much Dean cares for him. Alice and I both agree that it's 'hella-fucking cute' (in her words, not mine).

"And you know, Jess is such a sweetheart," Dean shakes his head fondly, referring to Sam's girlfriend of just over four years, "She had dinner made for us on the night we arrived. 'Cause I'd had to call Sammy and tell him we'd be runnin' a little late 'cause of the thing with the burst tire,"

I nod, remembering the anecdotal snippet that he had already gone over, "And I told her that she shouldn't have gone to all that trouble, she really shouldn't have; a whole goddamned spread laid out for us- Cas, man it was freakin' beautiful," he laughs, and so do I,

"Did that include a pie then?"

"Hell yeah it did." Dean laughs even louder at my assumption, but I know – and I'm pretty sure anyone that knows Dean knows- that a sure way to hid heart is through a hot, home-made pie, and he knows everyone knows it.

"That was very good of her." I nod.

"Right? And you know, I've always told Sammy, and he sure as hell knows it too. Told him to never let her go," Dean's laugh has reduced to a sentimental chuckle. He pauses for a second, his eyes mostly closed, one arm folded behind his head and the other draped over his forehead, and he sighs lightly. And all the pride and leftover joy from his week-long trip flashes across his face in one beautiful expression. I find that I haven't stopped smiling along with Dean as he told his tale.

Finally he shakes his head again, tilting his head to the side, stretching his legs out and yawning heartily, "She's the light of his life right now. Seriously."

"She sounds very nice." I add in agreement, filling in the conversational lull.

"Yeah, absolutely." Dean replies, "She keeps him happy all the way out there, you know? And the rest of his friends too, obviously."

…

"D'you miss him?"

Dean huffs out a quiet laugh of absolute confirmation, "Do I miss Sammy?" he reiterates my question, sounding almost in disbelief that I would ask such an obvious question,

"I take it, yes?" I grin at my own stupidity,

"Dumb question, Cas."


End file.
